by Paul Anlee
“And why would Prime Minister Hudson make such a threat?”
“Pacifica is the only country in the Americas that hasn’t suffered one of the mysterious deaths.”
“Yes….?”
“We could offer to provide evidence to the world that her government is, in fact, behind the deaths. That they are conducting a program of targeted assassinations.”
Mitchell shook his head in bewilderment. “And are they?”
“No.”
“But we—that is, you—could fabricate convincing evidence making it look like they are?”
“Iron-clad evidence.”
Mitchell was stunned. “Okay. Let’s put that aside for a moment. You’re saying that if we convince Iran to lower oil and gas production, the Northern EU will drop their request that we raise the price on our liquid natural gas shipments to Southern EU? How does that work?”
“Well, we might have to point out to the Germans and Poles that the SEU will have oil and gas shortages as a result. This will pave the way for NEU countries to increase fracking activities and export their products at an increased price to their southern neighbors.”
The President nodded. “That just might work. Of course, it would allow us to raise our prices as well.”
“Which we will have no need to do. Our production costs will still be lower than the NEU’s. We can afford to hold our prices where they are and still be highly profitable.”
“Yes, I suppose $170 per barrel of oil equivalent is fine for us.”
“Or we can let them drift upward, slowly.”
“Alright. Now tell me how you intend to persuade Prime Minister Hudson.”
“With something that is almost true. Just before young Darian Leigh took his research to California, he designed a method for interfacing dendy lattices with insect nervous systems. I believe you have encountered one such synthetic species, the Spyders?”
A startled Mitchell answered cautiously, “Spiders are everywhere, nothing unnatural about them, even if you don’t like them.”
“Not spiders, ‘Spyders’, with a ‘y’. I could send you the transcript from the files of former NSA Deputy Director Thornten if you’d like. Just to refresh your memory.”
Mitchell blanched. “How could you possibly know about those? Our conversation was confidential. And that program was top secret.”
LaMontagne casually inspected the back of his hand. “Yes. Well, that’s not really important. It turns out that while Dr. Leigh was at Berkeley his research there was secretly merged with two other programs by Pacifica’s Department of Defense. Have you ever heard of a Matavispa?”
“Mata…what?”
“Matavispa. Apparently, there was a number of Latinos involved in the project, hence the name. It’s a play on words, merging matar, the Spanish word for kill with avispa, the word for wasp,” replied the Reverend.
“Oh, like killer bees?”
“A million times more deadly. The matavispa is a genetically engineered killer wasp. Merge a synthetic biology program to alter the normal wasp so it injects a deadly neurotoxin, with Dr. Leigh’s insect lattice and military drone operators, and you get the matavispa. It’s a perfect machine for politically-based…interventions, if you will.”
“That sounds abominable. And Pacifica has it?”
“Yes. And my organization has collected sufficient evidence to demonstrate they alone have it.”
“And they’re using it?”
“Oh, Heavens, no. Prime Minister Hudson would never authorize something like that. She’s a peaceful woman.”
“Well, who is?”
“We are.”
“What?! You mean we have it too? Why would we use it?”
LaMontagne’s demeanor was bizarrely casual as he confessed. “More correctly, I am using it. I’ve decided it’s time for the Church to assume a more active role on the secular world stage. As I am considered to be outside the conventional power structure, I thought this might be a good way to demonstrate my serious intent to participate.”
“How did you get hold of something like that? You’ve said the Church has limited connections into the Pacifica military.”
“As it turns out, I only needed one connection. You see, I’ve been studying up on external control of Centralized Command systems. It seems I have a talent for compromising such systems. It wasn’t difficult to order a batch of matavispas to be hatched and distributed to a select international group of moderately important people. Controlling the killer wasps’ activities in the various countries was trivial. Isn’t the Internet wonderful?”
Mitchell glanced at the toddler, sitting quietly at LaMontagne's feet. “You’re insane.”
The Reverend laughed. “No, I am determined. Resolute. Fortunately, I have decided to apply this resolution toward assisting you at this time.”
“I…I’m speechless.”
“Really, Fred. Just thank me for helping you with this free trade agreement with the NEU. Not that it will matter in the long run. It’s simply a gesture of my goodwill toward your Administration.”
Mitchell glared at the man he had once considered a colleague. He felt repulsed, betrayed and afraid; it was as if his favorite pet had turned into a hideous hellhound. “And what would you like,” he sputtered, “in return for your…goodwill gesture?”
LaMontagne laughed. “A small thing, really. I want you to appoint me as your representative to the Special International Advisory Committee on the situation in Vancouver.”
Mitchell was beyond feeling surprised. “Yes, you would know about that, as well.” The President grimaced. “Well, I’ve already appointed Secretary of State Hartland in that position.”
“I would be happy to serve as an Advisor to Mr. Hartland or perhaps as a Co-representative.”
“I’m not sure that would be feasible.”
“I have forgiven a great deal from you and your supporters, Fred. That includes using my mother’s indiscretions against me in the election for Governor.” He held up his hand to override Mitchell’s anticipated protestations of innocence. “Now, now. Don’t bother saying it wasn’t your idea. You still sanctioned the strategy. It could have been me sitting in your place today, otherwise.”
“But you aren’t sitting here, Alan. I am. What if I were to simply deny your request?”
The Reverend smiled menacingly. “Then I hope your successor will be more pliable after you meet with a fate similar to Mr. Totts’.”
“Are you threatening me?” Mitchell’s voice rose as he pushed out of his seat. The toddler's eyes tracked the President, though his face remained serene. “Do you have any idea of my Executive Powers? I could haul your ass out of here and into prison right now!” Where is Security? They should have checked in when I raised my voice.
The President yanked open the door and shouted for his Secret Service guards. Nobody responded. The reception area was empty.
The Reverend smiled in a way that someone more naïve might have mistaken for fondness or compassion. “I’ve sent an alert in your name that the building is to be evacuated due to an unspecified emergency.”
Mitchell wheeled around. “You what?” he demanded.
“Your Chief of Staff, a man almost as loyal to you as he is to the Church, was most helpful in assuring your Secret Service detachment that you’d already left for the High-Security Bunker. The Presidential Mansion is quite empty, Fred. Well, not quite empty, as it turns out.” The Reverend gestured for Mitchell to look behind him.
A few yards down the hallway, a dozen insects hovered. Mitchell slammed the door shut and spun back to the Reverend. His eyes darted about the room, and he rushed over to close the open window.
“Come now, Fred. If I’d wanted you dead, do you really think I couldn’t have arranged for another…incident?” asked LaMontagne. “There’s really no need for us to be at odds. I want to help. Nothing more.”
Mitchell closed his eyes and placed a hand on the edge of his desk to steady himself and gain control
of his fear. “Is the appointment all you want?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s it; nothing more. I know it’s only a silly little worry right now, that Eater thing our young friends have created. But I’ve seen the emails, Fred.”
“Top secret emails…”
“Yes. The emails suggest the problem is real and significant. The Eater is about to change the course of history.” The Reverend sat back, habitually rubbing his chin as he pursued his thoughts. “Anyway, there are some people in Vancouver I would like to meet again. I so value old acquaintances.” At his feet, the boy rubbed his chin, as well.
11
The morning before the G26 meeting, Greg and Kathy hosted a science demo like none the world had ever witnessed.
Vice Presidents, Deputy Prime Ministers, Vice Chancellors, Generals, and scientific advisors of the twenty-six developed nations of the world crowded into the lab beside the enormous vacuum isolation chamber housing the Eater.
Greg performed as scientific Master of Ceremonies, discovering a hitherto hidden flair for the dramatic.
“I’d like you to take a closer look at this thirty-centimeter square plate made of two-point-five-centimeter thick industrial steel. That’s about one foot square and one inch thick. If you’d like to verify its composition, please come forward and lift it. It weighs about seventeen kilos, almost forty pounds, so please be careful as you handle it.”
“It wouldn’t matter if it was made of wood, plastic, or titanium, the effect of the Eater is the same on all materials.” Greg waited while a few walked to the front of the group and lifted the heavy plate and knocked on its burnished surface.
“Okay? Now, I’ll set the plate into this frame and introduce it into the isolation chamber.” Greg nodded, and Kathy opened a sample door in the side of the chamber. He strained as he lifted the block inside and fixed it solidly within the clamp assembly. He closed the door and caught his breath before beginning the demonstration.
“Please direct your attention to the monitors. The Eater has been growing at a slow, stable rate even while isolated within this vacuum chamber several months ago. It is now some ten-point-two centimeters in diameter, about four inches. Today’s demonstration will result in a jump in size to ten-point-three centimeters. We’ll, of course, allow everyone to verify that independently. Unfortunately, the demo will cause the projected demise of Earth to be brought forward by about six weeks. Unfortunate, but necessary. It’s a fair trade-off to adequately impress upon you the seriousness of Earth’s situation. Can everyone see? Okay, let’s begin.
“The Eater absorbs all matter and energy impinging on its surface and it does so instantly. The apparatus we’ve constructed to move the steel plate over the Eater will measure the velocity of the plate as it encounters the Eater. If you watch the monitor, you’ll see the plate accelerate up to three meters per second before it collides with the microverse.”
Greg pumped out all the air in the sample chamber to equilibrate it with the larger isolation chamber. He pushed a button and the plate shot toward the Eater. A pair of rails guided the block on a collision course with the strange anomaly floating in the center of the vacuum.
Outside the chamber, the monitor displayed the increasing velocity, distance to the Eater, and time left until impact. Seconds and milliseconds spun down as the metal block zipped along its rails. The audience held its collective breath over the last second and released it in a single gasp as the block collided smoothly with the Eater. Its speed didn’t change at all. It was as if it had passed through nothing more solid than a holographic projection.
The frame-and-track assembly returned the block to its starting point. Greg equalized the pressure to match the lab, opened the sample-chamber door, and removed the steel plate. It had a perfectly smooth ten-point-two diameter hole running through the middle. The scientists gasped.
“We believe the surface of the Eater to be a boundary between this universe and a microscale universe with different physical laws from ours,” Greg explained. “The Eater doesn’t merely convert the solid metal to a different state, such as gas or plasma. Matter that contacts the Eater is simply and irretrievably removed from this universe. We haven’t been able to saturate its rate of ingestion; it eats everything we introduce no matter how much or how fast.”
Someone near the back of the room, Greg didn’t see who, called out an objection. “You can’t remove matter from this universe without breaking the First Law of Thermodynamics, that energy and matter be conserved in a closed system.”
Greg ignored the objection. “Only a small amount of Hawking radiation is left behind to mark the transition to the new universe. We’ve outlined the theory in the briefing material provided. Our supervisor, Darian Leigh, originated the theory, and we’ve validated it through the Reality Assertion Field generator.
“I’ll be happy to address any questions about the theory. Dr. Liang is the expert on the device, itself.” He pointed to Kathy, who was monitoring the test from the main console.
“The removal of matter from this universe leaves nothing behind. As the metal plate passed over the Eater, there was no flash of light, and our instruments indicated no significant emission of radiation.”
He scanned the faces in the room. They were astonished by what they had just witnessed but still skeptical.
“The Eater isn’t a singularity,” he continued. “It has no gravity field of its own. It does not draw matter to it. It only ingests whatever comes into contact with it.
“We have two other tests to show you. In the first, we’ll discharge the most powerful industrial laser available to us. We borrowed a Super HAPLS, near-continuous, petawatt laser from the Triumph experimental fusion facility and set it up inside the isolation chamber. If you’ll turn your attention to the monitor, please.”
He nodded to Kathy. She introduced a stream of microscopic smoke particles into the vacuum chamber and manipulated a series of small metal blocks between the laser and the Eater. A sensitive photon detector rose in line with the laser, but on the opposite side of the Eater.
Kathy explained as she fine-tuned the setup, “The smoke particles and metal blocks will help us see the beam’s path. Nothing will be reflected from the Eater. The photomultiplier on the opposite side will show that nothing is transmitted through the Eater.” She reached out and activated the laser.
Inside the chamber, a bright green beam leaped from the far right-side, punched through the several blocks of metal in its path, and struck the Eater. The photo-detector picked up nothing other than a tiny bit of background reflection from the light-dispersing smoke.
“If we ran this test without any smoke inside the chamber, the light detector would not have budged,” Greg said. “Light is absorbed by the Eater as readily as matter. Because of this, we usually keep the viewing port into the isolation chamber closed.”
The scientists talked in hushed tones among themselves.
“We have one last test.” Greg cut short their murmurs by holding up a 45 caliber bullet. They snapped to attention. He had had a hunch that a little showmanship was needed with this group.
“This is no ordinary bullet. It’s an advanced, armor-piercing design we had specially made from depleted uranium with a soft-steel cap. When shot from this rifle,” he indicated a stock projecting outward from the side of the isolation chamber, “it can penetrate an inch-thick titanium plate, like this.” He held up another plate of dull metal, and knocked twice for effect: thunk, thunk.
“I don’t expect you to take my word alone for this, so I’ve loaded the clip with bullets identical to this one.” He pulled a five-shot magazine out of the rifle and showed it to everyone.
“I’m going to ask one of you to shoot me. Well, try to shoot me. We’ve set the aiming mechanism to shoot at only two targets. I’m going to enter the isolation chamber and place this armor plate in a rack one meter to my right. Our volunteer will take the first shot at the plate so you can see the effectiveness of the bullets. Then, I’
ll go stand behind the Eater, while the rifle is repositioned to fire at the Eater. On my signal, the volunteer will fire a second shot. If the Eater fails to absorb the bullet, I’ll be hit, and killed instantly.”
The scientists exchanged shocked glances. “It’s okay,” Greg quickly continued. “I know the Eater will absorb the bullet, regardless of its density and muzzle velocity which, with this particular rifle, will be somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand meters per second.”
He looked around the room, making eye contact with everyone except Kathy. He licked his lips, which had gone unexpectedly dry. In the calmest voice he could muster, he asked, “Could I get a volunteer to shoot me, please?”
Near the back of the room, a hand shot up. “I’ll do it.” Greg recognized the voice as belonging to the same scientist who’d objected over the Law of Conservation.
Figures—he thought.
Greg donned a vacuum suit and breathing apparatus. A camera sight on the rifle displayed the target on a monitor. He nodded at the eager volunteer and gave the thumbs up sign to Kathy.
She managed a weak smile in response. She was against the theatrics, but Greg had insisted the show would be incomplete without it. Even scientists were susceptible to a bit of good theater.
Greg picked up the armor plate, entered the airlock, and waited for the green light indicating the cycle was complete and he could proceed into the vacuum chamber.
Entering the eerie silence, he was keenly aware of the target on his back. He glanced back a few times toward the rifle with its high-powered, armor-piercing bullets and tried to reassure himself that it wasn’t going to fire spontaneously. Correction, it wasn’t likely to fire spontaneously. He took a few steps to the side so he wouldn’t be in line with one of its two permitted trajectories.
Standing well aside of the clips, Greg guided the armor plate into the waiting stand. “Is that lined up okay?” he asked Kathy through his suit radio.
She checked her monitors. “Looks good here.”